


Any Wooden Nickel

by furius



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gangsters, Jazz Age, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 00:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furius/pseuds/furius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jazz Age AU. Speakeasy and bootlegging, gangsters and spying. In which Charles Xavier, newly returned from Europe to take over the family business, infiltrates Hellfire Club to bring it down from within only to meet Erik Lehnsherr, Shaw’s Jewish lieutenant, who complicates his plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You are determined to go through with it then.” Hank McCoy was nervous. It was characteristic of him and most times, Charles appreciated it. “I just don’t trust Summers,” he continued, casting a glare at Alex before turning back to Charles. “You’ve been gone a long time. You don’t know what he _did_.”

“The chopper was faulty,” Alex said, defensive, “and he was a short target.” His expression turned sheepish. “I got him in the end didn’t I?”

“As well as half the windows and most of a wall,” Hank muttered. “The cost to replace those-”

Charles had about enough. McCoy just liked going over the details again and again, ad nauseam. Darwin picked Summers and that had been good enough for Charles. Shaw was at his usual table in the club, barely visible among the rest of the patrons. Charles himself was concealed from Shaw’s eye-line by McCoy in front of him. Azazel, however, was visible. Without looking at Charles, he approached Lehnsherr at the bar. That was McCoy’s cue. He stood, walked over and began an argument.

Lehnsherr’s hands, which Charles had been staring, moved beneath his jacket just as Shaw suddenly stood up, the leggy flapper on his lap sliding off smoothly, her hand holding what was unmistakeably a knife. A shive, Charles’ mind corrected- he mustn’t forget the language.

“Change of plans,” Charles said, just as Summer hissed “What?” and Charles jumped out between Erik and McCoy just as Alex drew his own piece.

Alex swore. His shot went wide. A woman began screaming as the bullet lodged itself above the bar. Charles caught a glance of startled green eyes before he was physically yanked away and spun until his back was pressed uncomfortably against the back of a stool.

“You,” Azazel hissed, “Stay here.” He turned toward Alex but Shaw’s men had him by the arms.

“Summers boy, I know you. Still no control.” Shaw said. Charles prayed that Alex managed to slosh himself in the chaos. It appeared he did, because Shaw took one sniff and stepped away quickly. “Beat it, kid! Before I get the bulls on you.”

Alex left without grabbing his coat or glancing at Charles. Good boy. Darwin’s always right. It took Charles a moment to realise he was now the center of Shaw’s attention since he was in the way between the bar and the table.

“And you are?”

“Charles.”

Shaw lifted an eyebrow, blue eyes cold. “No last name?”

“Darkholme.” Charles let his expressions go mild. He stood up and made a production of straightening his jacket and dusting his cuffs.

“English?” Shaw asked, patiently. The music had resumed, a loud jazzy thing that prompted people to return to the dancefloor.

“Only at school.”

“You look familiar,” Shaw commented, staring at bit too intently. “And I always remember a face. You don’t look forgettable.” It should’ve been impossible for a statement to sound so complimentary and so threatening at once, but Shaw managed it naturally.

Taken aback, Charles wet his lips, his confidence eroding. Adapt, he reminded himself. “I’m told that I take after my mother, Sharon Marko, of New York.”

Shaw was visibly surprised. Behind him, Azazel looked ready to murder, though for all Charles’ knew, that could be his default expression. “You’re not Cain.”

“No, that would be my step-brother,” Charles gave a little smile and noted the improbable easy sweep of Shaw’s eyes up and down his figure. Evidence presented, item two. The hypothesis formed; discomfort disappeared. “My father’s Brian Xavier, Mr. Shaw,” he said softly, his voice low and secretive.

“Why Darkholme then?” Shaw was intrigued. He gestured to his table. Someone immediately upright a chair that had fallen during the panic. “Do sit, Charles. I don’t know how it’s been possible but I don’t believe we’ve ever met.” He licked his lips. “Then again, you are quite young. We all grieved. Brian was a good man, a fair man for business. Does Kurt keep you locked up in a tower?” He nodded at Azazel behind him who lifted the teapot and began to pour.

“I’ve been abroad,” Charles replied truthfully. He lifted the cup. The wine smelled exquisite. “The Markos are not family,” he continued, and took a small sip. Charles lowered his eyes and saw from the corner of his eye that Lehnsherr was trying to push through McCoy and Azazel. There was no time to waste. He licked his lip then drew the lower one between his teeth. Looking up at Sebastian Shaw beneath his lashes, Charles said: “I’ve a proposition for you.”

“Go on, my boy.” Shaw did not smile with his eyes but his hand was creeping across the table. “Cash or check?”

“Phoenix futures,” Charles said and withdrew his hand before Shaw reached it.

“Check then,” Shaw said, speculative, though not disappointed. He turned to Azazel. “Tell Erik to come here. I think it’s time he thanked his rescuer. We should never never underestimate the dangers of stray bullets and hot-headed young men.” He stared evenly at Charles, “And those who intervene in time.”

-=-=


	2. Chapter 2

-=-=

One dreary November morning, a French roadster came up Greymalkin Lane stirring up dust and attention. Kurt, frowning at the noise, glanced out of the study window just in time to catch a quick glimpse of familiar devastating blue eyes and a strange, lethal smile.

At last, the prodigal son returned.

-=-=

"It's coming-out season." Charles announced. "I told Raven I would be home and frighten away the second and third layers of the unworthy."

"I wish you wouldn't use that name. She's not a girl any more." Sharon answered, inspecting her profile coolly in the three-way mirror of her vanity. She was older than he had last seen her, but artfully so, age had mellowed the youthful impudence of her sharp beauty to something graceful and almost delicate. He had inherited her eyes. It was disconcerting to see them brushed and kohled, the blue undercast by the diamond necklace to gain the glimmerings like a Damascus blade he had seen at the British Museum.

"You haven't met your stepfather yet, Charles," said his mother, more sword than maternal warmth. The maid was putting the final touches to her hair and she was clearly displeased with the effect of silver on gold in the mirror. "Kurt's upstairs, in the study. He wants to see you.”

Charles turned away, but hesitated with his hand on the door knob. "I don't want to see him."

"Do what you like, then," Sharon had her eyes closed as the maid brought up a puff to her face. "You always do and God forbid anyone stops you."

"I'll see you at dinner then," Charles said, fondly.

"Don't sit next to your sister and don’t disappear with her to gossip," Sharon reminded him, now a glittering reflection framed in the mirror, golden and perfect, "The seating's been all arranged. There’re some very nice young men coming up from the city tonight."

-=-=

Charles avoided looking up at the banisters he had slid down as a child. The housekeeper had informed him that Raven was out for the day and Mr. Xavier was napping.

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind being woken up for you, master Charles," she added.

"I'll wait," he told her and sat in one of the overstuffed leather armchairs in the downstairs library. The shelves and even the vases of flowers were familiar, but the library seemed even smaller than he remembered, almost quaint compared to the Bod. Idly, he picked up one of the books lying on the table. He flipped through its well-thumbed pages, half-smiling to himself before he was told that his grandfather was ready to see him.

He had not aged as well as his mother. Propped up by a nest of pillows, Francis C. Xavier was looking much more frail than his enthusiastic hug implied. Charles frowned and took in the figure centered in the vast ornate bed.

"You moved it downstairs," he said, a bit shocked.

"It's for their own good," his grandfather said, smiling placidly. He patted the coverlet. "There's a curse laid on it for those who are not the rightful owners"

The bed was a 17th century monstrosity, over-canopied, over-decorated, with boiseries of purple-heart wood and mahogany inlaid with ivory and gold, a garish testament to the extravagances of imperial power, Rococo aesthetics, and Xavier vanity.

"You are more kindly disposed to Kurt than I thought. Didn't Sharon mind?"

"It had to come down in sixteen separate sections.” There was an obvious satisfaction to those words. “ And Sharon's your mother, boy, so have the courtesy of proper address though her marriage to Marko is her own. Have you seen him yet?"

"Not yet," Charles said. "I'll see him at dinner I suppose."

"Go see him before, or after. Have a drink."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "You want me to actually talk to him? I thought you don't like him."  
Francis sniffed and reached for a handkerchief. "My personal distaste against the man has nothing to do with his value to the company. Why do you think I suffer him in my house, guardian to my grandchildren?"

"I don't want to see him," Charles repeated. "I'm here to see Raven, you, and Sharon, then I'm going back to Oxford in January for the new term. I'm at a stage in my research where there's this new fascinating-"

"Charles Francis Xavier, you will go see Kurt Marko and talk to him." At eighty, Francis' voice still had the power to take over a room even if he no longer had the authority to command a chamber. "Marko may help us but he is not taking over as long as I've a breath in my body. And if you have even a whisper of affection for the people who raised you, you will do all you can to learn the family business and keep it in the family."

"My research-" Charles tried again, then fell quiet when Francis glared. At length his grandfather sighed, sinking back into the pillows. He looked very old and any protest Charles faded in his throat.

"It's your mother's fault. Your father indulged her too much, you thoroughly un-American boy." Francis reached out and patted Charles' hand. His grandfather’s skin was thin and papery, the bones frighteningly stark. "Do it, for me, dear Charles, for Raven. You can go harrying off all over Europe, but what about her? What will she do if there's no name and no money to protect her?"

"I can take her with me," Charles said quietly. "I'll keep her safe." But Francis laughed. "You're so young and so worldly, my dear boy." He raised his other hand and touched Charles' face. "So like your grandmother sometimes. But what does Raven want? You should ask her. Money keeps us free, Charles. If nothing else, do it for me, then. Grant me an old man's indulgence. Kurt's only a man and you'll be using only words."

-=-=

"We are not suppose to have these, as you know." Kurt raised the tumbler, the amber liquid glowing softly in the cut-glass. "The Prohibition has destroyed businesses but created opportunities as well."

Charles made a non-committal sound. He disliked everything about Kurt. He disliked the curve of his nose, his freckles, his height, his greying brown hair, the Chicago accent, he disliked most of all that he had known him since he was a child and called him "Uncle Kurt."

"I'm glad you finally decided to come and see me, Charles. I know I've somehow...hurt...you, however unintentionally. But I think you should know that I love your mother very much."

"You wanted her money," Charles said flatly. His father had not been even a year dead before there was an announcement in the papers. The rumors at school, the sidelong looks on presentation days. That poor Xavier boy....

"Her money, Charles, needed managing," Kurt's voice cut through. "You've never wanted for money. I can see your distaste even as I mention the subject. Money makes the world go round. You are very fortunate, you've never had the world against you and learned how few means there are to greet it. Sharon did, as all women do, and your grandfather did, because his grandfather and father grew wealthy only after he was no longer a boy."

"It doesn't make less true." Charles maintained.

Kurt shook his head. "Of course it doesn't, but you have benefited as well and Charles, I know you don't want to hear it, but I knew Sharon before she ever came to New York and met your father."

Charles brought the glass to his lips and wished the alcohol was stronger. He felt he had been angry for so long that he could only ignore it in order to live, but in ignoring it, he felt helpless. In a way, he felt almost sorry for Kurt. Sharon could not love him. She couldn't love anyone except herself and Charles should know.

"So what now?" he asked. "Should I shake your hand and say, welcome to the family?"

Kurt looked at him curiously, almost startled. "No, I would never expect that. I want your help, actually. Your arrival is a stroke of luck."

Charles frowned.

"What do you know of the Hellfire Club."

"Not much." He had, of course, heard of it. It was impossible to grow up in this house without knowing the Club’s existence even if he had tried to forget it.

"It's currently chaired by a man calling himself Sebastian Shaw. His family name is actually Schmidt. He changed it only a few years ago.

Charles glanced out the window, the immaculate grounds and the bush cut into geometrical shapes; further out, the forest was still shades of gold and red, but some of the trees lining the drive were already skeletal. "Why?”

“To expand his business in America.”

"What does that have to do with me?" Charles asked, unable to keep out the quiver of alarm in his voice. The study was stuffy. His tie felt too tight. He resisted the urge to loosen it.

"They're trying to ruin me,” Kurt answered. “Ruin us, I should say, and I don't know how. I need someone to find out." He paused, then continued, "You trained as a scientist," Kurt brought over one of the books on his desk to Charles, "and though I'm sure you've never done a day of accounts in your life, you should still be able to read the numbers." And Charles could; worse still, at a glance he could already discern the lacunae.

"Why shouldn’t Cain do it?" he managed, failing, he thought, to sound considerate instead of petulant.

"They know him."

"Of course," Charles said dully. He wanted out. He had wanted to be better than all of them.

-=-=

"So, what does Kurt want?"

"He wants me to infiltrate the Hellfire Club, gain the trust of a man named Sebastian Shaw, and ruin him."

"And are you willing to do it?" Francis Xavier asked, face intent. They were in the library, the chess game dragging on. Charles was out of practice and Francis obviously had something on his mind.

"You knew," Charles realised suddenly. He drew back, stung. "You knew all along." He bit his lip and stood up. He was losing badly, anyways. "All of you did."

"Of course we do," Francis said, gently. "It concerns all of us. The question is, does it concern you?"

Charles stared at his grandfather for a moment the abruptly, turned away and walked out, ignoring a pang of guilt knowing he couldn’t be followed.

-=-=

Raven came home in the evening. They didn’t have a moment alone until long after dinner when all the prospective friends, partners, and suitors, had been delivered back to their chauffeurs and the family had retired to their respective rooms.

Francis and Kurt exchanged a knowing look when Raven said she wanted to make a hot cocoa herself and disappeared into the kitchen. “Go ahead,” Francis whispered as Darwin pushed his wheelchair out of the dinning hall while Charles walked beside him. “Ask her.”

But when Charles entered the kitchen and saw Raven rummaging in the fridge for the milk, the long silk of her dress trailing the tiles, the half-bob of her light hair visible over the door, the contrast to his memory of the little hungry girl he had found in the kitchen one night was so strong he quite forgot the question.

“You know as well then,” Charles said instead, “what I’ve been asked to do.”

The lack of confusion on her face said it all. “I know you hate this,” Raven said softly. When had she gained the strange knowing look in her eye? “I know you think it’s high-minded to wear ratty sweaters and live in a hovel and pursue the life of the pure intellect while us mortals toil and get our hands dirty. I tried to convince them to let me go instead.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Charles drew his hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. “And Oxford is hardly a hovel,” he argued, then realised that was beside the point. “I’ve nothing against honest industry but this,” he indicated everything around them, the everything beyond the door-- the wooden panelled halls, the chandeliers, the silverware -- that had been built on generations of conspiracies, corruption, and violence. It had taken him a long time to realise it was not normal to have men with guns inside his house. Kurt, oddly enough, got rid of them. When he came home for the holiday after Sharon’s marriage suddenly they were all gone and Sharon seemed much calmer. She actually hugged him and listened to him talk about running track and how much his professors liked his work. Charles shook his head, drawing away from the memory. “It’s wrong. It’s not _legal_ ”.

To his surprised, Raven looked suddenly angry. The spoon clattered loudly against the cup. “Not everything legal is right.”

“What’s going on, Raven? Tell me. I want to understand. Why are you asking me to do this?”

“I’m in love.”

Charles furrowed his brow. “You are nineteen.” Certainly old enough to be wooed by socially appropriate peers, but in love? Charles couldn’t reconcile the idea of his little sister and love.

“His name is Azazel and he has asked me to marry him. He’s like me.”

Charles took a deep breath. No last name, a foreign first name at that. “What do you mean he’s like you?”

“He doesn’t belong where he is.”

The conversation had suddenly taken a worrisome turn. Raven was whisking chocolate into the milk, evasive. “Of course you belong here. You are my sister,” Charles said.

“Your adopted sister.”

“You’re a Xavier. Sharon likes you more than she likes me. Grandfather dotes on you and even Kurt-” Charles stopped. An ugly idea formed in his mind. “He hasn’t done anything has he?” He would kill him.

“What? No!” Raven turned around, the boiling pot in her hand steady as she poured them into two cups. “But he’ll never approve. Mother will never approve and you won’t either.”

“I haven’t even met the man,” Charles complained. “How could you be sure?

“He’s Russian.” Charles lifted an eyebrow. Azazel was not a Russian name. Raven was biting her lip. “He works at the Hellfire Club,” she finally admitted. “You have to get him out but as long as Shaw is in charge, he can’t leave and I love him. We must be together, Charles. It’s, don’t laugh, I know you scientific sorts do, but it’s destiny.”

The sop was unbelievable, the faith in her face frightening. She had looked exactly the same while determined to outrun all the boys on their holidays and did so. That was why Raven volunteered; Kurt at least did the gentlemanly thing and denied her. There was no point in asking how she met this Azazel. The Xaviers’ dinner company were not always refined and Raven had an uncurbed curiosity, spoiled by too much leisure. Charles should’ve had them sent her to a boarding school in England or Europe, then perhaps onwards to one of the women’s colleges at Oxford. Their grandfather was too old, he couldn’t protect her. It was up to Charles.

“You couldn’t have fallen for Brickman?” Charles joked. “Sharon said he’s going to become a senator.” He forked two marsh-mellows from the jar on the counter and drowned them in his chocolate. Europe was sadly lacking in some respects. He missed the stuff.

Raven shook her head, her eye wide.

“Why is Azazel so afraid of Shaw?” Charles asked. If he gained the trust of Sebastian Shaw, he would be fulfilling Francis’s request, doing Kurt a favour, and more importantly, vetting this Azazel character so he would never be near Raven again; at least, not until the crush was gone. Girls fall in and out of love a dozen times a year or more, he remembered from his own circuit during the college years. He wondered, perhaps a bit pruriently, whether she had already been kissed.

“Sebastian Shaw,” Raven was beaming, “rumor has it, is _unnatural_.” She lowered her voice for the last, looking disturbed.

“Unnaturally cruel? Unnaturally violent? Unnaturally intelligent?” Charles was growing curious. It was so unlike her to be so reserved in speech.

“All those things,” Raven said, “and worse things. I’m not sure of all the details. He wouldn’t tell me.”

“But I will find out,” Charles continued. Raven didn’t thank him. It had always been unnecessary. They left the cups in the sink, but Raven rinsed them first.

-=-=-


	3. Chapter 3

Erik Lehnsherr was thirty-four years old, slim and tall and handsome, with light eyes, fine cheekbones, and a thin mouth in a square jaw. There was the odd rumor that he was Jewish but Shaw had raised him himself. Erik always carried, and, according to police reports and eyewitnesses, never missed.

He frowned when Azazel him brought him to Shaw’s table.

“Charles Xavier, at your service.” Charles said, blushing slightly at Shaw’s slightly effusive introduction.

Erik had no discernible expression when he shook Charles’ hand and murmurred his thanks. And if his grip was a little to tight to be comfortable, he released Charles’ hand quickly

“Charles has a proposition for us,” Shaw said. “A unique opportunity, I think, though perhaps it deserves our attention in private.”

It was almost imperceptible, but Erik tensed.“Why am I here?” he asked.

Shaw ignored him, but directed the next question to Charles. “Where are you staying?”

“A hovel,”Charles answered, rueful. Then, without prompting, “the Ritz.”

Shaw was amused.; he laughed. “Come back with us then, be my guest and let me hear all about the possible futures in the morning.” He turned to Erik. “Escort Mr. Darkholme back when he’s ready to leave.” He stood. “I’ve some other business to take care of before the night ends.”

“I should go with you,” Erik said without looking at Charles.

Shaw shook his head. “That’s unnecessary.” He glanced at the flapper with the knife who had settled near him. “Azazel and Emma’re coming. You, Erik, should keep Charles safe.” He smiled again, a disconcerting and perfunctory movement of muscle. “It is only fair.”

-=-=

After Shaw left, Charles stayed only for a little while. He drank at Shaw’s table and invited a few young women to dance. Before it got rowdy, he yawned declared himself ready to leave to no one in particular, and Erik, who had been smoking at the bar and fumbling with his teacup, installed himself immediately at his side like a particularly statuesque and unnecessarily silent limpet, not that Charles felt inclined toward conversation. His head buzzed.

It occurred to him as he ducked into one of Shaw’s motorcars, that he would be alone. No backup. 

Shaw’s house on Washington Square had the distinction of being the only building where every window was brightly lit so that with its white facade, it had appearance of some sort of monument, or mausoleum. It looked as if it had been built in the late 80s, but the inside had been remodelled and partly divided into apartments.

The housekeeper seemed unsurprised being knocked awake at night. “The fifth floor apartment is empty as you know,” he told Lehnsherr. “We just had it aired. Did Mr. Shaw-”

“Fifth floor is fine,” Erik interrupted and got them into them elevator without all the others. Azazel looked unhappy still, but there was no help for it. It was Charles’ plan after all.

“You are on this floor, aren’t you?” Charles asked as they finished with the ascension with a headache inducing grind of metal and the door opened.

There were four apartments on this floor. Erik led him to the end and opened the door seemingly with a wave of his hand. After a moment, “Are you coming in?”

Charles resisted the urge to bite his lip and entered. The front room had fine high ceilings and three large windows, the heavy curtains drawn closed. There were few items of furniture, but all of them of good quality. The deep leather lounge looked as pristine and as hard as the day it had been delivered and unwrapped.

He turned when he heard the door close behind him.

“Why are you here?”

“You invited me,” Charles met his gaze evenly. “Or rather, Sebastian Shaw did.”

“If you need help-” Erik’s voice sounded rough. “You know anything I own I would-”

“What?” Charles interrupted. He asked coldly. “Come to my side? Kill someone?”

Erik didn’t flinch. “I would do it again.”

“It was a fortnight, Erik,” Charles said tiredly. “I woke up in a hospital alone. You were gone. The only reason Scotland Yard didn’t question me is because my supervisor obtained a character reference for me from the Lord Justice, who took tea with him every month.”

Erik didn’t say anything. It was enough, and not enough, but Charles had used up all the words in the months that followed. He ignored letters. Partly out of gratitude, he threw himself into research. Then, for distraction, into the Oxford bars, the clubs. He visited country houses, explored the Continent, and refused all invitations to up to London. The perfume of long hair and soft skin almost drowned out the memory of a mouth, freshly rinsed with salt water in the mornings and in the evenings, an erotic mixture of alcohol and cigarettes overlaying the scent of sweat.

“And now you’re going to play the boy for Shaw?” Erik wasn’t finished.

“Isn’t what you’ve been doing, when you’re not being distracted with me?” Charles snapped. In spite of himself, bitterness still sneaked into his voice.

“Charles-”

Charles closed his eyes. “Do say my name again, Erik, say it in that exact tone, even. Business can be very tiring, as you well know.”

“Yes, the Phoenix Futures.” There was no reason for the condescension in Erik’s voice. “You told me you would never go back into the family businesss. You wanted to wash your hands free of the..taint.”

“Shaw is very interested. I see what you mean now," Charles paused. "He does seem charming.” He took a moment to enjoy Erik’s expression. “No wonder you couldn’t leave. And as you know, I always appreciate a charming man who smiles at the end of their sentences and reach for my hand.”

Erik did not smile. He was very pale. His hand made an abrupt movement toward his jacket before he forced it by his side. Guns won’t resolve this conflict, Charles mocked inwardly

“I think it is best we continue your charade. We don’t know each other,” Charles let a grin paint his face, “other than perhaps a general sense of what’s under the clothes, but what of it? It’s been a while. We are different men. I’m sure you’ve had fun with others after your..initiation. At the end, you were quite insatiable. I wonder if you’ve tried women-”

There was a loud crack. Charles jumped, but it was only a tumbler on the card table that had fallen over and crashed onto the marble floor. Erik hadn’t moved, though he looked as if was poised on the balls of his feet, ready to run or attack.

“Your bedroom is the first right. You are tired. Good night, Charles.” Erik turned his back and disappeared into the hall, leaving Charles and his words.  
Charles found his bedroom and without turning on the lights or determining what the monstrous shadow at the end of the room was, he leaned his head against the door and said: “Goodnight, Erik.”

-=-=


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has two breakfasts. Everyone is bitter, except for Shaw.

Shedding only his jacket and shoes, Charles lay on top of the covers, unable to sleep. He got up once to try the door but found it locked. Unsettled, he went back to bed and stared at it as if his mind could force the mechanism. The night was quiet, he drifted off. When he opened his eyes again, dust motes were dancing in a pool of sunlight flowing from a crack between the fold of the curtains. Lifting his head, he detected a shadow at the end of the room. He sat up quickly and laughed.

Who put a mirror on the wall facing the bed? He ran a hand through his hair and watched his reflection do the same. There was no accounting for taste.

The recollection of whose apartment he was in, however, dissipated the humor of the situation. He was wide awake, there was no point in going back to sleep.

He had just gotten out of the ridiculous bathroom with its large bathtub and what appeared to be an an ingenious bookholder when there was a knock on the door and an improbable Cockney accent informed him breakfast was ready and that the wardrobe was for his use if anything would fit.

Charles was just finishing admiring the astonishing collection of neckties when he heard footsteps. Charles made for the door, it turned unexpectedly, he ran straight into Erik’s arms.

“You are awake,” Erik sounded surprised, then looked like he regretted giving voice to the thought. His face was still slightly pink from his morning scrub. Charles took an unconscious inhale and smelled the familiar sandalwood and bergamot. Erik’s mouth parted, his eyes darkening. Charles leaned forward, but the hand around his back tightened and the slight force brought him back to the present.

“Good morning,” he tried, withdrawing, very aware of how close they were, “I broke a bad habit.” It didn’t sound personal until he saw how swiftly Erik’s expression changed, turned inward- the sculptural sweep of his cheekbones rendering an uncanny image of stone except for the faint blush still on his face, on his lips.

“Shaw just rang. We’re to go up in half an hour to discuss your proposal,” Erik said stiffly, letting him go and retreated to the dinning room. Charles followed.

“You are not against it,” he mused.

“Why should I be against anything that would benefit the Hellfire Club. Shaw had been eyeing expansion into the west for a while,” returned Erik from the safety from the other side of the table. 

“I know.” In fact, it was Erik who had told him, one of his many excuses at the time. Running rum across statelines require a large number of unknown intermediaries and difficulties in keeping track of shipment deliveries, which undercut profit and increased risk for police busts that could be traced back. Kurt Marko had so far managed for the Xavier Company an unbroken chain that maintained security from supply to distribution from the east coast to the Midwest, but it was only possible only because of the reputation and network of the Xavier name.

For newcomers like Shaw, expanding territories for a specific operation, like the maintenance of speakeasies, was the chief source of profit. The Xavier interests in Phoenix were isolated, existing only courtesy of a friend’s insistence. It was difficult to manage due to its distance from New York. Should Shaw prove sufficiently ambitious or willing to withdraw from competing with all the other New York interests, Arizona was also an attractive base for establishing a toehold into expanding further west into Nevada or California.

“I don’t know why you are here,” Erik started.

“I told you, business-”

Erik shook his head. “No, I mean, here.”

Charles frowned, then noticed that he was being handed a cup of tea by a man who appeared to know exactly what blend he drank. He disappeared soon after, while Erik brooded over a pot of coffee. There was a copy of newspaper by his elbow, unopened.

The clock on the other side of the wall still gave them twenty-five minutes. “Your man, the accent-”

“He’s not exclusively mine. I share him with the floor.”

“Oh.”

Erik lifted an eyebrow. “What?” He paused. “I don’t know why you are here.” This time, his voice was softer, as if he was speaking to himself.

But if he hadn’t meant to be heard, Charles wouldn’t have heard it. “Here” was apparently referring to sitting across eggs and toasts from Charles. “I wasn’t aware that I’m responsible for enlightening you regarding your own motivations,” Charles replied testily.

“You always seemed to know everything about me.” And Erik’s eyes were always uncannily luminescent in the mornings, the green clear, but there were shadows under them this morning. He hadn’t slept well.

Charles looked down and took a vicious bite of his toast before meeting that gaze. “And you think it’s a good idea to examine me over breakfast? What will that accomplish? That if I answered correctly, I know you as well as I did before? And if I’m wrong, we are indeed strangers?” He sighed. “Erik, it doesn’t matter either way. It’s very early in the day. Can’t we just have breakfast?”

They’ve actually never had breakfast together before, Charles recalled. At least, not after a night’s sleep, but he could exercise some restraint and refrain from reminding them both.. As he had told Erik, it didn’t matter.

-=-=

Shaw received them in the glass walled sun-parlor. He had a glass of orange juice and the morning newspapers. The woman Charles saw last night was there, in a pure white dressing gown that gaped tantalizingly and revealed an astonishingly slender contour. Beneath her rippled yellow hair, she wore an expression Charles’ last saw, disconcertingly, on Sharon’s face as she watched Kurt recount the latest market figures for railroad shares over dinner. Briefly, Charles wondered if he should reassess Shaw’s interest in him before he was greeted by the man, rather enthusiastically, his forearm involved in a handshake that nearly became an embrace.

“Charles Xavier,” Shaw exclaimed, “you poor boy. Stepped rather out of the wrong sort of fairytale, stepfather instead of stepmother.”

What _that_ should cast Shaw as, Charles didn’t even want to speculate. “I live in hope of a happy ending then. Are you willing to help me?” Shaw, presumably, had already spent the night taking Charles’ measure and either found Charles’s proposal or Charles’ himself sufficiently attractive, and, if Charles was fortunate, the package deal an irresistible temptation.

“Yes, of course,” Shaw said. He sat back. “Shoot.”

 _I wish_ , Charles thought. “All of Phoenix futures, operation rights etc. I retain the deeds and twenty-five percent shares, monthly, in perpetuity.”

Sebastian considered, the shrewdness in his thin feature became pronounced; it was look of calculation that could thrill a Dracula with jealousy. “But dear Charles,” he said, “introductions could be costly, setting up might be expensive and I’m only a small businessman. Ten percent.”

“Twenty,” Charles said, easily. “A man has to live, Mr.Shaw, and I rather like New York, otherwise I could head out west myself. Marko has no friends out there and I think I can learn quickly enough. It is rather in the blood.”

“I’ve a better idea,” Shaw said, his eyes flicked to the woman beside him, “Emma here suggested that I offer you a position, with me. If we are to be business partners, I think it will do us both good to understand each other a little more. I’m always in need of educated men, especially one who has, as you say, an innate business intelligence in the blood. You don’t have to answer immediately. I know young men always think they should explore their options and I approve of the practise, being approving of thinking men in general as long as they reach a decision.” Charles resisted rolling his eyes; pontification from an upstart mobster was no easier to bear than from university chaplain. “I’ve a great number of men more used to action, but I’ve found that being decisive is the more valuable virtue.”

A server arrived with a cart and proceeded to lay out what seemed to be an entire breakfast menu. Aside from a basket of breads, everyone received a full plate, except for Emma, who had a glass of lemonade and a tomato sandwich which she proceeded to nibble without great enthusiasm.

“By the by, help yourself to everything here,” Shaw was saying, “Speaking of men more used to action, I know Erik tend to skip breakfasts. I apologise on his behalf if my hospitality’s been lacking, but really,” he cut into the bacon, “I didn’t expect him to offer a room in his own apartment. He’s usually rather adamant about his space.”

“I’m honored then,” Charles said, picking desultorily at his food and despite not being hungry, forcing himself to swallow so he didn’t have to talk or look at Erik, who sat beside him like a stormcloud. Emma was watching him, quite closely, in the way that Sharon tended to when she was suspicious that someone was trying to cheat her out of something. The parallel was becoming disturbing, except, of course, Sharon had never held a knife outside the setting of a meal.

“You told me to keep him safe,” Erik reminded Shaw stonily and Charles thought of his locked door.

“So I did,” Shaw answered, “but you can be excessively paranoid, Erik. This can’t be a long term solution. It’s hardly going to last. How long did your previous occupant last? A week? Two? What was his name? Matthew? Mark? John? Something Biblical.”

Charles concentrated on not scalding himself with the coffee. There had been no tea. His mind turned to the locked door and the array of neckties. That display at breakfast then, was it all a trick? If it had been exam, he failed it. He no longer knew Erik.

“St. John.”

“Ah yes, quite the bright one. Did we send him off?”

“Last I heard,” Erik replied, “he freelances.”

Charles felt ill. There was a cough behind him. A moment later, Azazel entered and passed a piece of paper to Emma who glanced at it and whispered something in Sebastian’s ear. He stood and extended a hand for Emma. “Charles, perhaps you can give me your decision tonight. Twelve percent and a position with yours truly. And since your heroics have moved our usually stoic Erik, he shall continue to exercise his devotion to your safety. We should dine together. Nine, at the Caspartina, Erik knows it.”

“And if I say yes at the moment?”

“Are you?” beamed Shaw.

“Hypotheticals. I shall have to visit my solicitors.”

“Nine then, I look forward to seeing you again. Erik, a word please.”

-=-=

Azazel alone remained after they all left.

“What have you done?” he demanded.

“Hardly your concern,” Charles said coolly. “I think the question is what I will do.”

“If you endanger her-”

“If _I_ endanger,” Charles couldn’t believe the conceit of the man. If Azazel had actually used Raven’s name, he wasn’t sure what he would’ve done. He stood, keeping the necessary steps between them so he could meet the taller man’s eyes evenly.

“Azazel, how I play this is-”

“Play? You think this is a game?” Azazel began pacing. “It stops being a game when you catch Shaw’s attention, worse when you catch Lensherr’s. You’ve done both. They stop at nothing,” he threw up his hands. “It’s enough. You must leave. I give up. She will understand.”

Charles frowned. “You’re in no position to demand anything of me or to play martyr.” Whatever his own personal feelings about Azazel, or lack of them, he did promise Raven and romantic sacrifices were fatal to the susceiptible. He relented: “Trust me,” he offered.

“Trust-” Azazel stopped and turned.

“Is there a problem?” Erik asked.

“No, nothing at all,” Charles said. “I merely asked for directions if I want to come back.”

“I’m going with you.” Erik suddenly noticed that they had an audience. “Azazel, Sebastian and Emma are nearly ready.” Azazel left, still with a pained look on his face.

“I’m afraid my sense of geography wasn’t up to his expectations,” Charles explained. “I’m just going back to my hotel and schedule an appointment with my solicitors, regardless of what decision I make.”

“You haven’t made it then.” Stoic, indeed, Charles thought, the hope in that voice was transparent, but then he remembered Erik’s Biblical St. John.

“I was sure I had until dinner. Your admirable and apparently uncharacteristic concern for my safety presumably ends then,” Charles said. “My apologies for the inconvenience, I’m sure you have better things to do. I hope you’ll be suitably rewarded for you pains.”

“Come on then,” Erik said as the maids began to clear away the breakfast debris “My pains are none of your concern.”

-=-=

His room at the Ritz-Carlton was booked until end of the week. Erik, wearing a scowl, followed into the room and carefully closed the door as Charles telephoned his lawyer and made an afternoon appointment.

“I’m going to change,” Charles informed him as he opened his suitcase. “I do prefer my own clothes if I’m to do any sort of business.” He took off his jacket and noticed that Erik was still there.

Amused, he said, unbuckling his belt: “Are you going to watch? And perhaps dive at me if a tie proves dangerous?”

Erik muttered something about having a smoke but at the last moment stopped and remained facing the door.

Charles shrugged and began unbuttoning his shirt. “What did Shaw say to do if I declined his offer? Would it be an exposed ditch on the side of the road or would I have the honor of an unmarked grave, courtesy of my face? Or is it one of those any means necessary cases? At least I’m alone and he can’t threaten anyone else.”

Erik didn’t answer, but the line of his back tensed.

“I suppose I should send my things up to his penthouse. I’ve forgotten the address. You would have to tell the bellboy when he comes up.”

“You’ve made your decision then.”

“I do have to find a place to stay,” Charle said, “and I don’t think I would get to say no and Shaw knows it. You can tell him that if you like.”

“It’s not too late, I would-”

Charles’s stripped his undershirt.“I think he made it quite clear that it’s impossible.“

“No, not there, but I’ve another place. He doesn’t know about it, not exactly Park Avenue, but you can stay there. Have you finished your studies? Is it your sister? I’ll gladly pay-”

Charles closed his eyes and thought _St. John_ again, but it proved futile. “Erik-” Charles interrupted and then find himself unable to go on.

“Is that-” Erik had turned around and undoubtedly saw the scar. He looked very pale and took several steps forwards, his eyes drawn to that white messy patch of beveled skin.

“You can touch, if you like. It’s just like any other scar. You’ve more of similar nature, I seem to remember.”

But Erik didn’t touch it. “You fell,” he said, his voice tremulous. “You fell.”

“Yes, I fell,” said Charles, wry. “The ricochet bullet stunned the spine, so to speak, even through a book and a drink tray. They thought I wouldn’t be able to walk, but the doctor I had had practised during the war and insisted that full mobility was possible; thank god no one moved me before the medics got there.” Charles kept his voice even. “No one at home knew.”

He wasn’t prepared for Erik to drop to his knees and suddenly hug his legs, his mouth burning on the small of his back. His words were mumbled against the skin: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I wanted to stay, but you are right, it’s my fault. I couldn’t bear it again.”

Charles hands stilled where it was carding through Erik’s hair. “Again?”

Erik’s mouth travelled across his waist. “Shaw killed my mother, but it was my fault. I couldn’t do what he asked. He warned me and I have to live with the consequences every single day, waiting.”

Charles took a deep breath. Whatever history Erik had, whatever he did or did not reveal to Charles during their two week affair, that it came back to Sebastian Shaw seemed the least surprising. “So if I hadn’t gotten up and walked and found you, you wouldn’t have ever-” What? Come back? But Erik didn’t. He couldn’t even bear to face the consequences of simply being _there_ when Charles woke up with a detective inspector hovering over him demanding answers. “So much for promises made before dawn,” Charles laughed and pushed Erik away. He stumbled backwards and sat on the bed and covered his face. He was tired. The locked door had kept him up half the night. He fell asleep wondering if he was Erik's prisoner or Shaw's guest, and which was the lesser of two evils. Behind the cover of his hand, the world was drab and silent except for a slight hitching sound.

Through it:

“Charles, I miss you,” Erik confessed.

“Yes.”

“I thought of you-” Two hands cupped his knees. Charles shivered. He was half-naked, his trousers still undone, and Erik was kneeling between his legs, the warmth of his mouth a terrifyingly immediate memory on his skin.

Dear God, Matthew, Mark, Luke, St. John.

“I tried to not think of you.” Charles lowered his hands. Erik was too close. 

“Sebastian wants you.” Erik winced with each word.

As if I didn’t know. “And I’m keeping it that way,” Charles answered. He let his hands trace of Erik’s face. “Do you really think I would really let him in my bed? But what I said this morning stands. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” Erik insisted, stricken. “Can’t you see that everything you do matters to me?”

“And you rather have him dead than that. You can wait twenty years for revenge, but you can’t bear to wait two days to see whether I would wake up. Was St. John a bright blue-eyed scholar? Or was he a sloe eyed youth with a preternatural understanding of organized crime? Did you pretend that the man in the mirror was someone else or were you playing out a memory? It’s not a broken promise if it’s just fantasy. You’ve an astonishingly compartmentalized mind, my friend, to the point of self-deception. Two weeks; it’s rather significant.”

“Stay out of my head, Charles,”

he pleaded.

“So I pass your exam,” Charles said, leaning down for one kiss. Erik gave it easily, his tongue licking around his mouth, the fabric of his shirt and the metallic clips of suspenders pressed uncomfortably against Charles’ bare stomach. They parted for breath. Erik’s eyes were wild, his hands sliding up the inside of Charles’ thighs. Charles clamped his fingers around those bony wrists and stopped their progress. “I still know you."

“I think,” Erik said slowly, blinking, his eyelashes damp, the flush across his cheekbones almost vivid in the gray New York morning. “I think I don’t know you at all. You've changed. You wouldn't be so-”

“I’ve finally grown up,” Charles answered. “You see the difference between twenty-six and twenty-nine, the difference of a year in a hospital, the difference of finding something too good to be true, the difference of a self-awareness that I’m not a better man after all. Like you, I have the capacity to sacrifice everything.”

-=-=

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> "Taking a wooden nickel" in 20s slang means doing something stupid. The saying goes: "Don't take a wooden nickel"
> 
> Business models for rum-running are completely conjecture. I’ve no idea how moonshine end up in speakeasies.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles Xavier, flirting with sharks.

-=-=

Charles had left the States at twenty-one after a brilliant academic career to embark on a walking tour that led him half-way across Europe to a conversation with an Oxford tutor involving chromosomal transformations amidst glasses of _agiorghitiko_ in wavering candlelight. When morning arrived, Charles had a new traveling companion and the impression of a revelatory material metamorphosis. Bolstered by the optimism and energy of the sleepless, he was lured in equal parts by the philosophical potency of science and the promises of the fellow’s arms, shoulders, and the astonishing beauty of his eyes under the Mediterranean sun.

The interest in those eyes dimmed considerably under the perpetual clouds of Britain, but the science grew fascinating. After the fifth year of rushing between his flat and the labs on almost a daily basis, Charles was no longer abroad, he was _home_ , versed in tea and comfortable with sprinting on narrow cobblestone roads.

It had been almost ten years since he had left the country of his birth. There was a new New York that came alive at seven with the first buzz of the electric billboards and the whiff of freshly applied perfumes that progressively deepened through the night. The morning fog obscured all the scents and colors, kept them secret from the morning commuters who stepped blithely on cigarette stubs and pieces of the evening post, ignoring and pretending that the same kerb had hosted a more unsteady sort of foot traffic mere hours ago.

While working with -- because Sebastian preferred the subtle difference of prepositions, thus it was not _for_ or _under_ \-- Shaw, Charles never quite returned to the owlish habit taking his breakfast at eleven, an indulgence he had only slothfully cultivated one memorable rainy London season with Erik Lehnsherr, but bed at four and breakfast at nine meant he spent most of the day in a state of semi-wakefulness, made more unreal by the garish decor in Shaw’s penthouse. He was beginning to suspect Emma always went around in white as an act of rebellion.

Shaw’s suite occupied the top two floors of the building. The top floor contained Emma’s private territory -- Charles had never seen it, for there was a white locked door leading to her corridor-- Shaw’s bedroom and study, and a bedroom and a sitting room that Charles was given for his use. He didn’t ask who or if there was ever a previous occupant, and no one supplied the information. There was a long spiral staircase that mostly consists of bends of sharp steel and piano wires connecting the two floors. Charles navigated it carefully and with faint distaste every morning to get to the library, which was connected to a living room that led to a dinning room, the kitchen and a small hallway that contained two guest rooms where a few bodyguards slept.

Charles spent most of his days in the library on a chaise lounge, usually nursing a hangover like a Victorian invalid while going over his agreement with Sebastian and supplementing his legal knowledge from the collections handsomely bound books, likely never opened.

It would’ve been easy to tell Erik all his plans like he had many years and he had been tempted, back at the Ritz, the last hour where they had dared to recall what had passed between them but then Erik had spoiled it as he always did when it came to the crucial juncture. How could a man who claimed to wish to avenge his mother spend twenty years in devoted service under his murderer who killed her unless he wanted more than revenge, but also Shaw’s empire for himself?

In two months, Charles knew Shaw wasn’t a man to inspire the sort of loyalty that would get a usurper killed, but he was enough of a businessman who could make it difficult for anyone to take his place. He wasn’t exactly mafia, but The Hellfire Club had enough weight that a sudden successor would be challenged by the Genoese and Sicilian sharks circling after the scent of blood in the water and Erik was always a methodical man who disliked chaos.

They were all the same: his grandfather, his father, Kurt, even Erik, selfless Erik who claimed to offer Charles-as-he-seems everything he had to offer-- men who preferred to be laws unto themselves and bugger everything and everyone else.

What would he say if Charles were to confess he was not only here for himself, but for the Xavier Company even to the extent of ruining the Hellfire Club? Accuse him of hypocrisy, perhaps, but Charles had a true family and Erik had only Shaw.

Christmas and New Years came and passed with the usual round of parties and introductions and benign liaisons. After the holiday season, Charles saw Erik rarely; Sebastian had sent him on assignment up and down the state. And when they do see each other, they spoke to each other politely with outbursts of sudden intimacy -- a phrase, a word -- that left Charles uncomfortable and vaguely guilty; and in that guilt, a sort of simmering anger he thought he had doused with three years of English rains where he definitely did not miss Erik or begun a dozen letters that ended in the rubbish.

The beginning of February in Charles’ twenty-ninth year was cold and wet, with snow building up on the window ledges every morning. At four o’clock, the maid came in for the fires and Charles got up and begin to get ready for the evening. He didn’t have Erik’s Arrow Collar Man profile, but he could be charming. There was a romantic cast to his face that lent to people’s imagination of friendships.

Dressed, Charles practised his smile in the hallway mirror, watching Emma’s reflection approach behind him, her pale face obscured by a thick white muff. She rolled her eyes before tapping her wrist. It was time for curtains.

-=-=

“Nathan Milbury, Charles Darkholme, my new protege.” They were discreet about the presence of Charles _Xavier_ so it had been Charles Darkholme who was being introduced to the New York Shaw frequents.

“You do get around, Sebastian. What about Lehnsherr? I thought he was your right hand man?”

“A man needs both hands,” Shaw said, “Erik’s only one man.”

“You look familiar, Mr. Darkholme.”

Charles smiled noncommittally. The last time he saw Nathan Milbury, he had been five years old, hiding from his nanny. Upon seeing him, Milbury had crouched down and patted his head several times with a broad palm which he was holding now for Charles to shake.

His hand was hard with calluses, his grip almost bruising. Charles could still remember how crushing it felt on his head. Afterwards, he had been grateful even to see Sharon, and clung to a corner of her dress all evening. She never minded that, at least, as long as he was quiet and didn’t step on anyone else’s dress. Milbury had talked with his father all evening on the other side of the room.

But his father was dead close to twenty-five years and Milbury remained as Charles saw him last- a man of excess proportions, too broad and too tall in his figure and too sharp in his face for any room he occupied, gross and almost clownish in any surrounding,

 _The Caspartina_ was a cabaret that mimicked one of the great glittering cafes in the theater district. In fact, it was just a little off the way, the large sign adorned in electrical lights that flickered with disappearing and reappearing wavy lines that was perhaps supposed to evoke the sea or some Art Noveau sophistication. The name itself made was so nonsensically feminine it was was probably sentimental.

Inside, there was the swell of crowds of all classes- the inevitable beginning of the workweek making their conversations louder, their drinking harder, and their eyes blind to the dealings of their Bohemian and criminal companions who dined on foie gras and ordered hundred dollar bottled wines while sipping cocktails and enjoyed conversations shouted into each other’s ears.

A languorous orchestra was scratching out the slowest fox-trot Charles had ever heard to the accompaniment of some overenthusiastic castanets when his glance across the second floor balconies fell upon a toque hat sitting jauntily on a spill of blond hair.

Milbury, sitting by his elbow, followed his gaze. He said, sotto voce, “Allow me to present, the lovely Ms. Mallory Xavier. Just nineteen and a perfect doll. Magnificent, isn’t she?”

Raven stood, the tight blue sheath of her gown leaving very little to the imagination. Charles looked away. Raven was indeed beautiful, but brotherly pride did not preclude outrage at a stranger’s breathless appreciation..

“Sounds familiar,” he said.

“Of the Xavier Company. Rather out of your league at the moment, I’m afraid,” Nathan observed. ”The heavy beside her is Cain Marko. His father currently runs the Xavier Company, but I think she’s the heir to what will be left of it, unless her brother returns from abroad. No one has ever seen him. Ended up being one of those highbrow types who prefers Europe to home.”

Charles took a sip of wine in favor of reply.

“Are you certain we’ve never met before?” Nathan asked him again. “I spent some time in Britain earlier in my life, perhaps it was then.”

“Must be one of those faces,” Charles answered. “Why do you say, “what will be left of it”?”

“An accounting error, I think.” Milbury said, strangely. “No, I don’t think so. I would say, in fact,” Milsbury didn’t stare like Sebastian, but he had a narrowed eyed way that reminded Charles of being under a microscope, “quite unique. A character face, full of contrasts and yet, balanced.”

Charles lifted an eyebrow. “Memories play tricks. Perhaps I merely resemble someone you know. What error?”

“Perhaps,” Milbury conceded, offering him a light to his cigarette, and ignored the question. “So how do you propose to dispose of Erik Lehnsherr? Come on, don’t act surprised with me, Charles. I haven’t seen Shaw so pleased since Emma grew up. She’s his ward, you know, God rest the soul of Old Man Frost, and it’s hardly a secret she doesn’t like Erik; nearly killed him one night I heard. They try to pass off as an accident. It’s a pity she’s a woman, though rather fortunate for the rest of us.”

“I am fairly new at this,” Charles said carefully, “staying alive seems the best I can do for the moment.”

Milbury paused getting out his cigarette case. “But you ambitious enough, I think, and definitely clever enough to know Erik is a Jew.”

“Is he? I hadn’t noticed,” Charles drawled, tamping down his increasing dislike of the man, “and I don’t see how this matters when none of us is Italian.”

Milbury snorted. “The Italians will get what’s coming to them, so will all the families that are too close, all wrapped up in each other like an inbred hutch of rabbits. Erik’s parents worked for Sebastian in some capacity. Liaisons, perhaps. He was a skinny, scrappy boy, but Sebastian has a soft spot for him and took him in after their deaths. No finer man if you’re in need of a sharp eye and a steady hand. Rumor has it that most of Shaw’s recent windfall had been due to his cunning. You haven’t known him long, but the man is _peculiar_. Even the Jewish mafia don’t like him, though Shaw still sends him to negotiate, however, something about tribal sympathy. ”

“A difficult man to oust then, if that’s my intention. I should thank you for the warning.”

Milbury lifted his glass. “Erik is not a likable man.” He paused, for effect. Charles duly gave him his attention. “He is a loner. He doesn’t make his intentions clear. It makes a man hard to follow and he’s made a lot of enemies, hunting for Shaw.”

“Shaw must value him as a second who can’t stage a mutiny,” Charles said, just to be contrary. “It seems he’s a paragon.”

“I give this lesson to all new satellites around Sebastian,” Milbury resumed, “Sebastian’s survived twenty-seven attempts on his life. The man’s near immortal. I don’t think he even ages.”

“All men die, Mr. Milbury,” Charles was polite. “We can only hope to die happy.”

Milbury snorted. "Is that Greek? It sounds like them. Gods everywhere, and they're afraid of them all. Well, their gods are just like men."

Charles could still see Raven and Cain from the corner of his eye. The mystery of how she met Azazel was at least solved, though Cain’s presence, thus, Kurt’s involvement seemed to portend to something more sinister.

But what was more sinister than racketeering, corruption, and murder? He was already scraping the heap of the barrel.

"They do manage immortality," Charles said.

Milbury waved a hand, as if to dismiss the notion. “Leave the abstract, Charles. In this world, the most practical men live the longest. And yes, manage immortality. Right hand or left, even Erik knows that he’s ultimately expendable. Everyone is, around Shaw, except perhaps for the lovely inscrutable Miss. Frost, who possess African diamond mines, if rumors are true. Do you possess diamond mines, Mr. Darkholme? I think you must; you are sitting very prettily if you are sitting here with me. I don’t just talk with anyone.”

“I’m sorry to leave you alone for so long, my friends,” Shaw came back with Emma on his arm; in her flapper costume again, this time a blinding white that seemed all the more dazzling for the diamond at her neck. “It appears Azazel can be very difficult to find in a crowd. And what have you been conspiring with Nathan?”

“Your happy death,” Charles watched Shaw’s face. “And how I should get rid of Erik.” It was Emma, however, who glanced at him sharply. Her carefully painted inscrutable face was easier to read because of its disconcerting resemblance to Sharon.There was probably a mould somewhere, Charles thought, of blonde heiresses with an affinity to the underworld.

“Nathan’s always a bit bloodthirsty between meals,” Shaw dismissed it as a joke. “Don’t take it to heart. Old men have their fantasies. They keep us young. Emma, why don’t you keep him company while I steal Charles away for a chat?”

Charles stood and nodded his farewell to Milbury, who was gazing at Emma with uncensored and disturbing fondness, while Emma smoked and ignored him.

Shaw kept up a friendly chat as he led him to one of the more deserted corridors. He saw Erik lounging against the banister as he passed him and felt slightly reassured even as Shaw led him behind one of the curtains into a room.

“Tell me Charles, who is the man you have in Arizona again?” Shaw asked him. They were quite alone. 

“A woman, actually. Moira MacTaggert.”

“A girl friend? A fiancee?” Shaw locked the door and gestured Charles to sit in one of the leather armchairs, then poured two tumblers of orange juice for them; the bottles were on ice. The room must be for his private use. 

“Family friend,” Charles said, feigning nonchalance. There was a desk at the end, but no papers. He appraised the walls. They were thick. He couldn’t hear a thing from outside. He took the glass, calm. ”Her father was before my time. Neither the old or the new MacTaggert and I have never met as far as I remember.”

Shaw blew out a ring of smoke. “Then perhaps it’s time for you to be acquainted.”

Charles looked at him questioningly.

“As soon as I can tie off the affairs here,” Shaw said, “we’ll head west, my dear. Emma and Erik will stay to keep an eye on things. Azazel will accompany us.”

Charles frowned. “We are going to Arizona?”

“I think New York is becoming a bit hotter than I like. There is a war coming and I don’t fancy to be part of it, or worse, caught in the middle. The Italians sail far too close to the wind as it is and the Jews might become involved as well. I was thinking of removing my entire operation out west eventually. We’ll just be moving up the schedule a bit.”

Charles was not quite able to keep the alarm out of his voice. “My deal with you-”

“Remains.” Shaw gave him one of his benign smiles. “Dear Ruby can take care of things.”

“Who’s Ruby?” Here was that again. Who or what did it refer to?

“My accountant, a very trustworthy one.” Shaw said easily, then his expression became, as far as Charles’ could judge, quite earnest. “And you will help me, Charles, won’t you? You’ll be helping yourself as well.” He had leaned forward.

“Of course, Sebastian,” Charles said.

“I know I can count on you,” Shaw said, as they stood. He reached up and adjusted Charles’ tie when they were at the door, his finger skated over his collar, briefly touched his neck. “I foresee a bright future for us in the west. Everything is better there, less uptight.”

-=-=

“Who’s Ruby?” Charles asked Erik, when he found him again, lurking in one of the alcoves, hiding or watching.

Erik stabbed his cigarette on the banister. “Why are you asking me if you want a girl. I- ”

The man could be so bloody minded at times. Charles interrupted, “Shaw said she’s his accountant.”

“You’ve met all of his accountants,” Erik said. It was true, Charles had, during the due diligence required for the transfer of assets. His own banker had scarcely blinked at the transaction he was asked to perform and Xavier Company’s solicitors had been thorough once granted even a little access. There shouldn’t be anything Shaw should be able to kept hidden, yet he had, which was why Charles was still here.

Ruby was the first hint in ages, and Milbury had mentioned him as well, which Charles thought meant he was finally trustworthy. He just didn’t know whether Erik was now the one distrusting him, or just being willfully obstinate. The idea that Erik didn’t know who Ruby was disturbing, to say the least.

He changed tactics. “I’m going with Shaw to Arizona,” he said.

“I figured that.” Erik said, angrily.

“I wish you could come with me,” said Charles in a burst of confessional urge. The thought of being left alone with Shaw was gloomy, especially when he wasn’t sure if everything in Arizona was ready. The attachment between Erik and him was absurd, but it was still there, he was certain.

Erik blinked and stared at him for a moment before saying, “I asked to go.”

A moment of surprise where Charles felt a sudden burst of relief, “Of course you did.” he shook his head, mostly to conceal his smile. “I don’t know why I would think otherwise.”

“I am supposed to keep you safe,” Erik continued. " I promised myself that." 

“And let me guess, Sebastian praised you and said that I’ll be safer away and you’ll be more useful here.”

Erik’s voice was tense. “You understand him, too.”

Charles rubbed the side of his head. “I wish I don't in this case; the man’s transparent. Borrow a light?”

He drew out a smoke from the cigarette case, pressed it between his lips, but instead of offering the lighter, Erik leaned in and lit it with the end of his own. Attraction flared dangerously; they were both being reckless. Charles' hand reached slightly to brush lightly over Erik's jaw. Erik's expression was possibly his own.

"You don't regret understanding me," Erik said, softly.

“No," Charles answered. Then, at a loss, "This is a terrible place,” he continued, surveying from above. “Who thought to put purple and red together for a theme?”

“Sebastian said he wanted happy colors."

“It's a smart move. The bar would get a definite profit. People would need to get blind drunk to be happy here.” He said, glanced sidelong, and Erik was smiling.

-=-=

Shaw, customarily, would not be leaving with them. The sky was already growing pale by the time they exited the club. The city was either asleep or near it. The parties was a muffled roar behind them

He was turning to say something to one of the bodyguards when he heard a tremendous noise, experienced a flash of pain, and was simultaneously, shoved, violently and painfully into the car, as one of the men beside him slumped dead on the streets.

Something wet was slowly seeping at his side through the ride back to the penthouse. He was breathing very fast, almost hysterical. His knowledge of everything the business involved had been theoretical, a play of numbers and words. He scarcely know they man the left lying there, possibly dead, only that he preferred cigarettes to cigars and had a surprisingly good ear, which he said he learned from his colored girlfriend, who was a jazz singer.

Charles felt shaky and nearly stumbled into the hall table once inside the penthouse.

“Hey sugar, lie down,” Emma soothed, an arm almost gentle on his shoulder, which was disconcerting enough. “It’s only a little scratch, just put your hand over it," her tone sharpened. "firmly.”

And when Charles pressed the handkerchief to his side and brought it out, it was red. His heart was still beating very fast. He was vaguely aware that someone was saying something angrily then peeling his jacket off. He hissed when the movement jarred the wound.

“Sorry,” Erik whispered. “Oh God, let me see.”

He was unbuttoning his shirt, his fingers fumbling a little. Charles caught sight of Emma watching them and hurriedly batted Erik’s hand away.

Erik looked hurt, but withdrew when the door opened and Shaw came in to sit on the sofa.

“Are you all right?” Shaw asked and gestured to someone behind him, and Charles was almost surprised to see Hank, carrying his doctor’s case.

“Who’s shooting at me?” he asked through gritted teeth, as Hank began stitching the flesh closed. Hank’s hands were sure and quick, but it was still painful, possibly worse because he was also tapping out a message on the cushion with his thumb.

“I don’t know. Some amateur,” Shaw said, as Hank finished with the dressing. He had everyone gone from the room. “Who probably thought you were me. Poor boy. Do you think you’ll be able to travel?”

Charles couldn’t let Shaw out of his sight, not before he knew how Ruby was damaging the Xaviers, or having Shaw ruined. “I don’t see why not,” he said, letting Shaw help him back into a new shirt he had someone fetch from upstairs.

When he was finally alone again, lying on his good side, Charles thought of his and Erik’s professed indifference to each other and wanted to laugh. He tried not to think how Shaw had pocketed his bloodied handkerchief, but not before briefly pressing his mouth to it. The image repeated itself in his mind on loop like a broken reel.

He fell asleep wondering, disturbingly, if he would’ve preferred that it was Erik who did the same.

-=-=

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phoenix, Arizona, actually was a hotbed of mobster activity in the prohibition years.
> 
> In 1929, the Castellammarese War was fought between the Italian-American mafia and more old guard Scicilians.
> 
> And those are the only two facts in this chapter.
> 
> Nathan Milbury is one of Mr. Sinister's aliases.
> 
> "Don't take a wooden nickle" means "don't do anything stupid."

**Author's Note:**

> Cash or check: kiss now or later


End file.
